


i want to choke (u) and get sick off of you like cigarette smoke

by lalejandra



Category: Bandom, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: BDSM, Belts, Blood, Breathplay/Choking, M/M, Pinching, Post split, Praise Kink, RACK - Freeform, Restraints, Safeword Use, Scratching, Slapping, Spanking, Squeezing, a blindfold, floggers, lots of bdsm negotiation off screen pre fic, negotiation, paddles, someone saying no but not meaning it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-13
Updated: 2009-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-14 22:53:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28803120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lalejandra/pseuds/lalejandra
Summary: Negotiating boundaries for violence is easy; negotiating falling in love is hard.
Relationships: Spencer Smith/Brendon Urie
Kudos: 7





	i want to choke (u) and get sick off of you like cigarette smoke

**Author's Note:**

> ever post a fic and have people descend on you in droves to tell you you're a serial killer? funny to think how NOT bdsm friendly fandom was 10+ years ago eh? haha. anyway read this at your own risk, all comments calling me a serial killer will be summarily deleted. --lalejandra, 2021.

[[Blanket permission for all transformative works. I would love to hear about it if you make a transformative work using this as source. If you want to get in touch with me for that or any other reason, please feel free: lalejandra@aleuromancy.net]]

Title: i want to choke (u) and get sick off of you like cigarette smoke  
by lalejandra  
  
Summary:

Negotiating boundaries for violence is easy; negotiating falling in love is hard.

  
  
Notes:

  
  
Published at: 2009-11-13  
Revised at: 2009-11-13 03:17:30 -0500  
  


Brendon fiddles with the zipper on his hoodie. "And I told her... I told her that you're not interested in me, you know, in that way --"

Spencer closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. If there is one thing that he would take back from those first awkward glorious days, it would be when he said, "It doesn't have to be, you know, like _that_ \--" He'd been thinking, of course, that Brendon was _straight_ ; he'd been thinking that he'd never seen Brendon with a guy, that there'd never been any rumors about Brendon with dude groupies, that Brendon had never even kissed a dude, that Brendon would be much more likely to give in if there was nothing sexual in it.

He'd been such a fucking _idiot_.

"-- so, you know." Brendon clenches his teeth and shows them to Spencer in what looks kind of like that annoying face Pete always pulls in photographs, but also like a grimace.

Spencer has no idea what Brendon just said. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. I guess she'll call me or whatever, and we'll have, you know, a relationship conversation, or she'll tell the internet, or... you know, I don't know. I guess I never..." Brendon makes the grimace-Wentz-face again. "I never thought this far ahead."

Spencer had. Spencer had totally thought this far ahead. Spencer had never in a million fucking years expected that Brendon would want _both_ \-- would want what Spencer gave him _and_ would want the girl. Spencer figured that, if it ever came down to it, Brendon would go for the girl with both hands and leave Spencer fucking alone and lonely, with nothing and no one except Brendon's dog and Brendon's house in L.A. and Brendon working shoulder to shoulder with him every day on keeping their fucking band together with spit and fish tacos and the goddamn song Brendon's been writing for three years with the fucking Rimsky-Korsakov descending major thirds in the bridge.

"I..." Spencer holds out both hands, palms up. "You didn't have to come home so soon. You could have stayed longer." _You shouldn't have stayed at all,_ says the angry Spencer that lives inside the real Spencer's heart, punching his fists against veins and arteries, kicking the ventricles. _You should never have fucking left my side._

But even as tiny angry Spencer is throwing a temper tantrum, Brendon is looking at the real Spencer reproachfully. "We had a _date_ ," says Brendon. Now that he's not talking about his relationship with Sarah any more, he's more comfortable. No stuttering, or ums or uhs. Disfluencies, that's what they're called, which Spencer knows because Ryan learned it, like so many other things, just to fuck with Brendon's head. "We had a date, Spence, and we had a _plan_." Brendon is stripping now, quickly. First his hoodie, which he drapes over the couch, then his T-shirt and jeans, both folded neatly on the side table. He'd left his flip flops by the door.

His stupid underwear is bright fucking yellow.

"Was I..."

Spencer moves his gaze from Brendon's neatly folded clothes to where Brendon is standing uncertainly in front of him, clenching and unclenching his fists. Brendon almost naked brings it out -- Spencer can feel himself standing taller, practically feel his muscles getting bigger. He shifts so his stance is wider, folds his arms across his chest.

"Were you what?" prompts Spencer, and his voice is just a little deeper. No one else would notice, he doesn't think, but he does. Brendon does. Brendon folds -- gracefully, slowly, quickly, clearly practiced -- down to the floor, the living room rug Spencer had picked out for Brendon's house because it felt just rough enough against his palm that he knew Brendon wouldn't be able to forget it was there.

Spencer likes it when Brendon is aware of his surroundings. Until it's time for him to not be aware of his surroundings. But in the living room... when they start in the living room, Spencer wants Brendon to be _present_.

"Nothing," says Brendon. He stares up at Spencer, takes a deep breath, and Spencer nods his head. That's it, Brendon just... sucks it all in, folds his hands behind himself, resting them on his heels, bows his head. He needs a haircut. He didn't shave this morning before getting on the plane. Spencer walks around him. He must have had the conversation with Sarah this morning because there are fresh nail marks on his back just barely healed over -- they had sex last night, and they wouldn't have if he'd told her about this. Not if she wanted time to think it over.

Brendon's back is one long line, muscles prominent. When they'd started this, his ribs had been what was noticeable about his naked back, and now he's got muscles that flex and move under his skin as Brendon tries to enter the right headspace.

Spencer's already there. Spencer's almost always there when Brendon's in the room with him, and sometimes that really gets in the fucking way.

He wants to touch Brendon's skin, sweaty even in the cool darkness of the living room. Spencer turned the temperature setting on the central air down earlier that morning, in hope. In hope that Sarah would dump Brendon when she found out about what he did with Spencer, or that she'd be okay with it, or that Brendon would change his mind and not tell her. In hope that Brendon would come back to L.A. exactly like this -- naked and on his knees and waiting for Spencer. Spencer wants Brendon just like this -- just like this but without the concern of Sarah, just like this but without the doubts, just like this but _more_.

"Spencer..." Brendon takes a deep, shaky breath. His voice is quavery, and that means he's not feeling it, he's not getting there just from being on his knees in a cool dark room.

"Brendon," Spencer whispers, and reaches out his hand to Brendon's head. He strokes Brendon's hair gently, then more firmly, then grabs it as tightly as he can and jerks Brendon's head back. When he says Brendon's name again, it's in a strong voice, warning, commanding. " _Brendon_."

"Yes," says Brendon, and he opens his eyes and looks up at Spencer, and swallows hard. His mouth is a little open, his breathing is labored, his pupils are dilated, but that could just be the darkness.

Spencer twists his fingers, pulls Brendon's hair. "Are you going to be good? Are you going to be a good boy?"

"I can be good." Brendon sounds like he's begging, and it makes Spencer want to rip his hair out, smack his face, choke him, hold him down and fuck his face. _Tie_ him down and fuck him. "I can be good, Spencer, I just need -- I just need --"

"Be quiet." Spencer jerks Brendon's head back into position, pulls his hand, strokes his head. "Put your head on the floor."

Brendon leans forward slowly, his hands still behind his back, and Spencer takes immense glee in putting his hand on Brendon's back, right between his shoulder blades, to feel the muscles quivering as Brendon tries to put his forehead on the ground without falling or using his hands. Spencer gives him a little push, just enough to put him off balance, just enough to make him fall.

And he does fall, but he doesn't use his hands to stop himself from hitting forehead first, stomach slamming into the ground. He drags in a breath, again and again, his back moving like bellows, before he pulls himself up and rearranges himself. Knees bent, hands behind his back, forehead on the floor, torso as straight as possible.

"What a good boy," croons Spencer. He squats next to Brendon and runs a hand down his back. Brendon's muscles are still quivering -- from holding himself there, from keeping himself still, Spencer doesn't know. It's fucking hot. He loves it when Brendon behaves himself and does what he's told and gets rewarded -- he loves it when he knocks Brendon off balance and Brendon disobeys and has to be punished.

This fucking works for him, it works for him the way so many other things never have. And on one hand, he thinks that's probably pretty fucking fucked up, but on the other hand, who the fuck cares?

"You're so good," Spencer repeats, and runs his hands over Brendon's back. "You're so pretty, you're so well-behaved. I know you love doing what you're told, don't you." When Brendon doesn't answer, Spencer leans back a little bit, considers for a moment, and then slaps Brendon across the face, open-handed, not too hard. Either Brendon's waiting for it because he didn't answer on purpose, or it came as a surprise because he didn't realize it was a question. Either way, his face rocks with the slap, flares a dull red, and it's gorgeous.

"I'm sorry," says Brendon. His voice is lowering, slowing. He's getting there. "Yes, I love --" His voice hitches and he takes a breath. This part is hard for him. This part is humiliating. This is the part he hates the most, Spencer thinks. "I love doing what I'm told. I love doing what you tell me."

As much as Brendon hates saying it, he must love it too, because he doesn't sound resentful -- he sounds sincere.

"I want you to stay here," Spencer tells him. "If you can stay here until I come back, I'll be very proud of you." Spencer stands and cracks his neck, forces himself to slow down. "Do you think you can stay here? Take a moment before you answer me. If you can't stay here, I'll put you somewhere else." He strokes Brendon's bare foot with his big toe. Brendon's feet are so ticklish that his whole body shudders. "It'll be okay."

Spencer waits while Brendon thinks, tests his muscles, flexes his fingers, rolls his neck. When they first started doing this, Spencer would get impatient. Either Brendon could do it or he couldn't fucking do it, what took so long? But the first time Brendon actually said that he couldn't stay where Spencer put him, Spencer quit feeling so impatient. It felt kind of... kind of intimate. Brendon really was trusting Spencer to do what was best for him, not just what was going to get Spencer off. He wasn't just letting Spencer boss him around -- he was literally putting himself into Spencer's hands and trusting that Spencer would listen to him and pay attention to him the way no one else was. The way no one else would.

Weirdly, Spencer didn't get off on that. It scared the shit out of him. So now he's not impatient that Brendon takes the time; now he's not just going through the motions. Now he's really fucking concerned, because in all the reading Spencer's done on this, all the research, the one thing he's taken away is safety and caring. And setting Brendon up to fail isn't safe or caring; it's dangerous and nasty.

And it took a while for Spencer to realize the other part to this -- the part where if Brendon felt comfortable enough to say no, to say that he needed to be somewhere else, then Spencer could trust that Brendon would feel comfortable enough to use his safe word if he had to, that Brendon isn't going to try to impress Spencer by taking more than he really can, that there's no way Spencer can accidentally go too far and hurt him past what he can take.

Spencer really wants to hurt him.

Spencer wants to fucking flay him open. Spencer wants to cut his skin up with a knife and leave bite marks everywhere all over his body and cover up Sarah's scratch marks with his own. Spencer wants to slap Brendon everywhere until his skin is red all over, until his ass and back are bleeding with welts, until he can't sit down or lie down or do anything but stand perfectly straight and perfectly still.

Spencer wants to put his hands around Brendon's throat and squeeze, then let go and feed Brendon the air from his own lungs.

Instead, when Brendon says, "Yes, I can stay here," Spencer runs his hand down the straight line of Brendon's spine and stands, walks out of the room, and sticks his head in the freezer. It's only 65 degrees in the house, but Spencer is over-fucking-heating.

When he finally feels in control of himself, he pours a glass of water and drinks it all. He turned down the central air, but didn't set up anything else, because he was _hoping_ , but he didn't really believe it. Brendon really likes Sarah a lot. He hasn't said anything, but it's obvious: they went on vacation together _and_ she came on tour with them _and_ Brendon was photographed with her _and_ Brendon introduced her to fans at one of the meet and greets _and_ Brendon talked about her on stage. He's never done all of that for one person before. As much as Brendon seems to really enjoy what he and Spencer have been doing, Spencer's always figured it would end when Brendon was ready to really commit to someone, to a real relationship, to someone he could bring home to his family.

Spencer has no fucking idea what it means that he has that and he still wants _this_.

So Spencer starts setting everything up. He pulls a few bottles of room temperature water from the pantry, grabs the stock pot and fills it with hot water, and takes everything into the guest bedroom. He gets a couple of super soft towels from the linen closet -- one of them is a fluffy and new bath sheet, but the other is thin and old, one of the towels Brendon bought from the Salvation Army when he moved into his tiny apartment back in the day.

He keeps an eye on the time -- Brendon's been bent for just under five minutes. Spencer doesn't like to let him go for more than seven. It puts him under, gets him into a place where he can sit still, but it also makes his muscles stiff and sore, especially in the cold. But if the house is too hot, Brendon won't go under at all; he'll just sweat and get miserable, and feel doubly bad because he can't do what he's told.

It's fucking hot to punish Brendon for disobeying, but it _sucks_ to punish Brendon when he doesn't do what he's supposed to do because he _can't_. It's too much, Spencer thinks, like everything that ever happened to Brendon while he was growing up. It's too much like when Brendon was punished just for having ADD, or for being interested in music, or for wanting people to like him. It's too much like punishing Brendon for _being Brendon_.

Spencer wants to be so much to Brendon, wants to do so much to him -- but never that. Spencer never wants to be like everyone else.

Spencer hits his own room to grab some tools -- that's how he likes to think of them. They're tools. Just like drumsticks; they help him do what he was born to do. Once everything is in the room, he goes to get Brendon.

Brendon is in the exact same position Spencer left him in. Spencer stops in the doorway and presses a palm to his dick. He and Brendon both get hard, and they fucking ignore it, because this isn't about sex, it's not about literally getting each other off. It's about giving each other what they need. As much as Spencer wants it to be more -- it's just not. It's just not more.

He stands behind Brendon, legs apart, arms folded. It's the best position, because it doesn't give him any room to act on impulse. If he wants to touch Brendon, he has to unfold his arms first, and that gives him a much needed moment to collect himself and make sure that he's touching Brendon for the right reasons, not just because Spencer can't keep his hands off him.

"Stand up," he orders. He can barely see Brendon's ribcage move as he breathes. That's fucking perfect. If Brendon were still breathing heavy, Spencer would move him into a different position and leave him there for another five minutes -- and if Brendon couldn't calm down after that, Spencer would sit on the couch and pull Brendon over his lap and punish him.

Spencer doesn't know what he'd do if that didn't work, because that _always_ works.

Brendon struggles to his feet; it's much easier for him now than it was before they started surfing and walking, before they quit smoking so much weed and drinking so much shitty beer. Brendon's body is more likely to do exactly what he wants it to do now; so is Spencer's, and it's fucking nice.

Once he rolls to his feet, Spencer wraps a hand around one of his wrists. "Do you need a blindfold?" he asks. Sometimes Brendon does. Other times, Brendon will keep his eyes closed and let Spencer lead him.

"Yes," says Brendon. He keeps his head down, though, and his eyes closed. Spencer wants him to open his eyes and look at Spencer; Spencer wants to know what's going through his head. But that's something else that makes Brendon embarrassed and uncomfortable, and there are only so many things Spencer wants to make Brendon do that hurt him emotionally at one time.

Spencer wasn't expecting Brendon to need a blindfold, though, and he didn't bring one with him.

"If you can make it to the room without a blindfold," Spencer says slowly, "I'll give you a reward."

"I don't think I can." Brendon is shaking his head, and his breath is starting to come faster. Spencer doesn't want to have to make him kneel again, then go find a fucking blindfold, then come back, make him stand -- so he moves until he's pressed right up against Brendon, and puts his hands over Brendon's eyes, lets his palms rest against Brendon's cheekbones, and, oh, perfect, his thumbs cover Brendon's ears.

Spencer puts his mouth right near his thumb and says, "If this is okay, nod your head." But he knows it's okay, because Brendon is melting into him, breathing slow and steady. It's nice when Brendon nods anyway, though. And Spencer begins to walk, moving them through the living room, into the hallway, through the doorway.

Ryan and Jon stayed in this room for, like, ten minutes. When they left, Spencer helped Brendon redecorate it. They painted it in purples -- three walls lavender, one wall dark to match the dark carpet. The bed is big and soft for Brendon's parents or Spencer's parents or Spencer's sisters; Brendon and Spencer never use the bed. They use the door, the wall, the floor. They use the padded stool and, once, one terrible awful time right after South Africa, they used the closet, Brendon on his knees, his front pressed against the back wall of the closet, blindfold on, restraints on both wrists and ankles, shuddery sob-filled breaths loud enough that Spencer could hear him from the hallway where Spencer sat, also leaning against the wall, his face buried in his arms.

That's the only time he and Brendon ever gave up, broke the scene before their negotiated stopping point. No -- they didn't stop. Spencer is the one who broke. Brendon never did. Spencer is the one who crawled into the closet with Brendon and wrapped himself around Brendon and cried into Brendon's shoulder.

Spencer can't... He doesn't... If Brendon hadn't turned his face into Spencer, hugged him back as soon as Spencer unhitched the restraints, Spencer just isn't sure what he would have done. Maybe... There's a thin, inflexible cane in the bottom of one of the suitcases Spencer never uses. He almost doesn't want to see what that can do to Brendon's pale skin. Almost.

Those terrible few hours do not get to encroach on this, though. Spencer starts with a blindfold wrapped several times around Brendon's face -- not just to block out all the light, but to hide Brendon. One day Brendon's going to have to open his fucking eyes, but they're working up to that. It's hard enough for Brendon to let Spencer take care of him, harder still for Brendon to just say what he wants.

Spencer wants to take that dangerous cane to Brendon's fucking _parents_ , that's what he wants to do with it.

And sometimes, when he and Brendon are recording or writing, and Brendon starts yelling at _himself_ for not doing something right, Spencer wants to take that cane to Ryan. Because as much as Spencer loves Ryan -- like a brother, like his other half -- Ryan almost ruined Brendon forever, and Brendon would have let him.

He carefully buckles the restraints around Brendon's wrists and ankles and whatever tension was left in Brendon just disappears. Brendon could be surfing or fucking or playing Guitar Hero or _anything_ now; he's relaxed, and he's ready to go. Spencer slides the door jams over the top of the door and under the bottom, and shuts the door tightly, turns Brendon to face the door, and hooks the restraints to the nylon straps. Ankles and wrists. He ignores Brendon's hard-on, just like he's ignoring his own.

If he wasn't so fucking _stupid_ \--

He runs his hands down Brendon's sides. "You don't have to count," he tells Brendon. "You were such a good boy to walk down the hallway without a blindfold. You don't have to count."

Brendon rests his forehead against the door. "Okay," he says, his voice already hoarse.

Spencer surveys his tools. He could start with a belt on Brendon's ass and thighs, or he could start with a flogger on Brendon's back. Or he could start with a paddle. He loves the paddles. His favorite is leather on one side and fleece on the other. Of course, Brendon's underwear is in the way for the fleece, but the leather should be fucking nice. It's not just about what it feels like for Brendon, either -- it's about how it feels in Spencer's hand, what it sounds like when it hits Brendon's ass.

Even through Brendon's underwear, though, the paddle gives a dull thwap that reverberates through Spencer's hand and arm, the belt a sharp, short crack.

He could cut off Brendon's underwear, but they've only -- they've only done Brendon's bare ass a few times, only when Brendon couldn't find the right headspace and Spencer had to pull him over his knee and slap his bare ass with his hand.

Spencer sometimes wishes he had, like, a mentor or something. Because, shit, this is fucking hard. Like, is Spencer supposed to keep all of their routines exactly the same every time, or is it okay to change shit up? Does Spencer have to keep bare hand-bare ass in reserve now only for the times when Brendon is being difficult or can he bust it out as a present for when Brendon is being really good, or when he thinks Brendon really needs it?

Fuck it.

"I'm going to cut your underwear off," he tells Brendon. "You'll feel the scissors."

"Okay," says Brendon, a little breathlessly. Maybe he wants Spencer's hand on his ass as bad as Spencer wants it to be there.

Spencer digs in his bag for the scissors, and stabs himself with them. Great, he's a fucking master at this shit. He's careful when he goes over to Brendon, though. "I hope this isn't your favorite pair," he says as he slides the blade under the leg. Snip snip snip, right through cotton and elastic. Brendon's ass is a work of fucking art. He does the other leg and tugs the fabric off. Spencer knows way too much about Brendon's grooming routine -- when Brendon thinks he's going to get some, he manscapes so there's not a lot of hair. Not that Brendon is hairy to begin with, but maybe it's some shit he picked up from Pete or Ryan or one of the skanky groupies he used to nail before he and Spencer started this... this whatever-it-is.

Spencer's first rule of their whatever-it-is was no more groupies.

He shapes Brendon's ass with his hands, letting Brendon feel all his calluses and blisters catch on smooth skin and tiny hairs. Then he leans against the door and lets Brendon have it. The noise Spencer's bare hand makes against Brendon's skin is fucking indescribable. Maybe Ryan has a word for it in one of his thesauruses; maybe it's the sound of aubergine dreams or waves of wooden legs, or maybe this is what it sounds like when the fucking day meets the night.

Brendon's making little hitching moaning noises as Spencer methodically smacks his ass. Spencer's got big hands, and Brendon's got an ass perfectly shaped for those hands. When his right hand starts to tingle, Spencer walks around Brendon and positions himself on the other side and starts with the left hand.

When Brendon's skin is pink all over and glowing, and Spencer's hand is numb, he stops. He's sweating against the door, through his T-shirt. He strips off the T-shirt and shivers a little when the cold air hits his sweaty skin. He shakes out his hands, rubs his palms, digs his thumbs in until it really hurts.

When Spencer lets his hand hover over Brendon's ass, it's warm. Perfect. Next Spencer picks up his new flogger; he bought it for too much money using cash at a tiny fetish shop attached to a tattoo parlor. Brendon's never seen it before; so far Spencer's only used it on his own thighs, and pillows. It's rubber, and heavy. Unlike the leather floggers, it doesn't just burn -- it stings. It stings and it catches bits of skin and hair. It leaves, Spencer discovered when he tried it on himself, marks, and, when he used it for long enough, beads of blood.

Spencer's never drawn Brendon's blood before and this might be the last chance he has. It's not a knife or a scalpel or even one of the tiny sharp pinwheels, all of which he has secreted away. But it'll do, just this once.

He watches Brendon stand still and breathe for a moment. Then two. Then three. Then he brings his arm down at an angle and the rubber of the tails snap against Brendon's skin. Brendon lets out a cry, then cuts himself off.

"I want to hear you," Spencer tells him, and then hits him with the flogger again, under his other shoulder blade. If he had two floggers, he could use them both at the same time, in a sort of weaving figure-8 pattern, but he doesn't want to mix leather with rubber and he'd only had enough cash to buy one rubber one.

Brendon still doesn't make any noise, so Spencer hits him harder, and faster, until Brendon's choked-off cries are turning into moans.

"If I wanted you to be quiet, I'd gag you," Spencer tells him, taking a moment to catch his breath and swig some water. "I love your voice, Brendon. I love how you sound."

Brendon moans, a long deep noise that sounds like it was pulled out of his stomach, and Spencer smiles smugly. That's the noise he wants.

He starts in again with the flogger, this time gentler, letting the tails wrap around and slap against Brendon's stomach and ribs. That's dangerous; all the websites say not to do it. But Spencer is in control -- it's not an accident because he's hitting too hard or aiming wrong -- and he wants Brendon's muscles to jump, wants Brendon to pull against the restraints, knock his head against the door, groan over and over again.

When the deep pink marks the flogger leaves give way to tiny red beads that smear when Spencer lets the flogger come down, he stops. He'll clean the flogger later -- for now he wants to go back to Brendon's ass and thighs. He's hardly even started on Brendon's thighs. They're dusted with just a little black hair; it's all barely there. They're also creamy white, completely untouched by the sun.

Spencer talks to Brendon while he chooses a paddle, explains to Brendon why he's choosing a rectangle instead of a round one. "I'm going to start on your thighs, Brendon," he says, as conversationally as he can. He has to swallow the words he really wants to say -- he has to swallow the things he wants to do tonight. Brendon's thigh, right where it meets his ass, is begging for a fucking bite mark, a dark bruise, blood rushing to the surface of the skin.

But Spencer's never put his mouth on Brendon except to kiss his head when he's been good or when he needs to calm down. Okay, he's licked him a couple of times, but that's all been dares, or to get Brendon to give up the last pop tart or whatever.

The paddle is black leather and it makes a satisfying thwack sound when it hits Brendon's thigh, and leaves a gorgeous pink mark, and makes Brendon cry out. Perfect. Spencer spaces the hits and doesn't go too quickly and when he goes for the insides of Brendon's thighs, he's careful to pretend he doesn't see that Brendon is hard and his balls are drawn up; he's careful not to hit anything but the inside of Brendon's thighs.

He's sweating now, and his jeans are uncomfortably tight, and his hand aches where it's gripping the paddle. And Brendon is making noise with every exhalation, which is fucking perfect.

Spencer wants to beat him until he cries, but maybe first they should eat something. He wants Brendon to sit on his sore ass, feel his heels digging in, let the rough hair on his legs scrape the tender skin on his thighs. And maybe later Spencer will come at him with a riding crop for his front, and leave perfect marks on the tops of his thighs and across his chest.

He steps back. "We're done for now." Brendon lets out an almost-yell and bangs his forehead into the wood of the door, pulls on the restraints holding his arms above his head. "I'm going to clean your back; it's going to sting."

This is the part Spencer's been dreading -- the gloves. But Spencer doesn't know where Brendon's been. He doesn't know what Brendon's been doing with Sarah. He doesn't know what Sarah's been doing with other people, or done before. So gloves it is; they come out of a box of a hundred latex gloves that he bought a year or two before, when Ryan wanted to play some kind of prank involving hair bleach. Spencer insisted they needed gloves, bought the biggest ones, and kept them after Zack confiscated the bleach.

He told himself he was keeping them for him and Haley, for if she wanted to finger or fist him, or if he wanted to fist her ass, even knowing as he told himself those things that they were lies. Knowing as he told himself those things that one day he'd cajole Brendon into letting him draw blood, and he wouldn't want to give Brendon any time to change his mind. The gloves had to be right there, within reach.

He wouldn't mind wearing one to fist Brendon, though. The thought sends a shiver right to his dick.

He sprays a tea tree oil facial toner over Brendon's back to disinfect it and Brendon shudders. He dips the thin, soft towel into the hot water -- tepid now, perfect -- and uses that to wipe down Brendon's back. There's not a lot of blood. Spencer folds the towel in half and presses it gently to Brendon's ass and thighs, down his legs where he opens the restraints around Brendon's ankles, and then up his arms where he pauses to open the restraints around Brendon's wrists. He tosses the towel back in the water, presses his chest against Brendon's back, and brings down Brendon's arms. They stayed pretty warm; Brendon is still sweating. But Brendon's muscles probably ache, and Spencer doesn't want him to hurt.

Except for how Spencer loves it when Brendon is in pain.

Spencer bends Brendon's arms so they're crossed over his chest and they stay like that a moment. Brendon is still making tiny noises in the back of his throat, and Spencer can feel them through Brendon's back, against his chest. Brendon's skin against Spencer's skin, sticking them together.

God, it's all Spencer wants _ever_ , just to stand like this all the time, hunched over Brendon, his forehead on the back of Brendon's neck. Brendon's sweat smells clean, and Spencer knows if he licked Brendon's skin, he'd just taste salt.

It takes everything Spencer has to step away, to take a breath that doesn't smell like Brendon, but he does. He lets Brendon shake himself out while he strips off the gloves, and then he comes at Brendon with the fluffy towel and wraps it around him, and hugs Brendon face to face. Except Brendon can't see him with the blindfold still on.

Brendon looks so. Fucking. Happy.

Spencer guides him to a sitting position on the carpet. "I want you to lie down now," he says.

"Yes," replies Brendon, and that's a tone of voice Spencer knows well, like Brendon's drugged, or so drunk he can't get himself home, or so tired he's not even going to bother showering, hoarse and raspy.

Spencer can never decide whether he wants Brendon to relax first or drink first. He almost always goes with relaxing.

Instead of like earlier, where he pushed Brendon forward just to watch him fall, this time Spencer catches Brendon as he leans, and settles him gently on the ground, letting his wrists fall to each side, making sure the towel is covering him to keep him warm. A fleece would be better -- less rough on raw skin -- but a fleece is just too fucking warm for Brendon, so a soft bath sheet it is.

Spencer isn't obsessed with time or anything, but he likes to make sure that things go according to a schedule so that Brendon knows what to expect. Surprises are okay as long as Spencer's planned them into whatever he's doing; he doesn't want to take Brendon too off guard. He doesn't want Brendon to decide to stop whatever they're doing. It's been years, literally years at this point. A few days whenever they can get away, a hotel night once in a while. And Spencer is still fucking petrified every single time that Brendon's going to decide it's too weird, too kinky, too fucked up. Spencer must think it is, too, since he's never told anyone. Not Haley. Not Ryan.

Brendon, Spencer realizes, must not actually think it's fucked up at all, since he told Sarah.

He cleans up the room a little -- puts the flogger into the bathtub to remind himself to disinfect it, pours the water out into the sink, puts the wet towel in the laundry. Throws away the latex gloves, makes sure everything is in his bag where it's supposed to be. The bag even has things Spencer knows he's never going to need, like lube and condoms and the very small beginnings of a play piercing kit and a clean plastic soda pop bottle for sharps. And a few disposable scalpels that he's never even let Brendon _see_ , much less has ever talked about, even during their (very rare) renegotiation sessions. And a giant fucking first aid kit, because Spencer wants to hurt Brendon, but he doesn't ever want Brendon to be hurt.

After Brendon's back to breathing normally, not making sounds as he draws breath or exhales, Spencer gives him a few minutes of just lying on the carpet, partially to make sure that his erection's gone down, but partially to make sure _Spencer's_ erection's gone down. Brendon's ass is bright pink, and Spencer can still see where the rubber flogger caught his skin and drew beads of blood, even though all the blood itself is gone.

It's a dark pink crosshatching that is so. Fucking. Hot.

Spencer crouches near Brendon. "Stand up." Brendon stands the way he always does -- first he pushes up to his knees with his ass in the air, and then he rolls his body upwards from the floor, using his hands as little as possible, until he's straight up and down on his knees, and then standing on his feet.

He's like a different person -- he's never this guy when they're out drinking beers with Shane and Zack or when they're playing paintball with Shane and Regan and Sarah. He's never this guy when they're arguing in the studio about chord changes or lyrics, and he's never this guy when they're hotboxing a car. This is just for Spencer, just for these days they set aside, and it's awesome, but it's totally humbling, and Spencer gets off on all of it, on all the conflicting emotions this brings out. Not just on beating the shit out of Brendon and knowing he likes it, but on all the little ways that Brendon shows Spencer how much trust there is between them. How much _need_ and _want_ and raw fucking desire for the shit only Spencer can give to Brendon.

"I'm going to take off the blindfold," says Spencer, and moves closer.

"No." Brendon shakes his head. "No."

"Yes." Spencer feels pretty fucking insistent about something he doesn't even really care about. Usually Spencer only makes Brendon look at him if he's asking Brendon questions about what he wants, because that's part of what Brendon loves/hates about this -- facing what he wants. Usually Spencer lets Brendon hide, stay inside his head, stay inside whatever -- the sub-space; or his own thoughts; or wherever he goes when Spencer is lying on their couch watching _Project Runway_ and Brendon is sitting on the floor, eating grapes or tiny pieces of sushi or potato chips from Spencer's fingers, letting Spencer card his fingers through Brendon's hair, or scratch his skin.

But he wants Brendon to fucking look at him. Brendon's girlfriend is probably going to break up with him -- is probably going to call tonight and tell him she doesn't think this is a good idea, that Brendon has to choose between Spencer and her, that no matter what Brendon told her this morning, Brendon can't be committed like this to Spencer and also want to be with her. It's not normal. It's not right. It's not healthy.

Spencer already hates her for all the things she might say to fuck Brendon up about it -- to ruin it all for Spencer. And Spencer's not under any fucking illusions. Brendon could teach someone else how to do this for him. Maybe it wouldn't be as easy as it was for the two of them the first time; maybe it wouldn't be as simple as fingers wrapped around a wrist and Spencer just _knowing_ what that hiccup in Brendon's breathing meant. But they could do it.

And if this is going to be Spencer's last day like this with Brendon, he wants Brendon to fucking look at him.

"I'm taking the blindfold off," Spencer repeats, and reaches out for the black cloth. When Brendon feels Spencer's hands on him, he jerks away. He jerks away, and flails backward, and falls onto the bed, pulling Spencer on top of him, but Spencer is bigger and heavier and can hold him down. Spencer puts a knee on each thigh, which has got to hurt, and grinds Brendon down onto the bed, which also has to hurt considering how raw the skin on Brendon's back and ass is, and rips the blindfold off.

"I said no!" yells Brendon, and that's it, he's out of the headspace, and back to being annoying, exasperating, hyperactive Brendon. "I said fucking no, Spence, what the fuck?"

Spencer stares at him. Brendon's eyes are swollen, and he's squinting into the light, and he looks pissed as hell.

Well, Spencer's pissed as hell too. He grabs Brendon's wrists, and holds them over Brendon's head in one hand, and puts his other hand on Brendon's throat. They don't fuck around with breathplay -- Spencer's never tried it with Brendon, because it's too fucking sexualized, and he doesn't want to scare Brendon away.

At first, he thought it would scare him away because he thought Brendon was straight, and then, later, because he knew Brendon wasn't.

He leans a little, feels Brendon's throat convulse under his grasp. "What's your safeword?" he asks evenly. "Do you remember it?"

Brendon's still glaring. "I fucking remember," he spits. "Do you?"

"I remember that it's not 'no.' Or 'stop.' Or 'don't.' It's not fucking 'please.'" Spencer presses harder on Brendon's throat, and tries to ignore Brendon's dick against his leg. However pissed off Brendon is at Spencer right now, Brendon's body loves what Spencer's doing. Brendon's body wants more of it. Brendon's body wants Spencer to choke him and grind the bones in his wrists to dust and leave bruises everywhere so that everyone can see.

Spencer lets go of Brendon's wrists, and is gratified to see Brendon leave them exactly where Spencer put them. Spencer shifts his weight so it's almost all pressing onto Brendon's thighs, pressure from Spencer's knees.

"What's your safeword?" Spencer asks again. He has both hands on Brendon's throat now.

"Sinatra," grits Brendon from clenched teeth.

"Would you like to use your safeword?" asks Spencer. He's fighting to keep his voice level, to not be angry. "If you want to safeword, you can get dressed and come downstairs. We'll order a pizza and watch a movie, and you can call Sarah or Shane or whatever you want." He pauses. "If you don't want to safeword, _shut the fuck up_."

"I -- " Brendon shuts his eyes. "I don't want to see anything."

"If you don't want to safeword --" and here Spencer pushes his thumbs into the softness under Brendon's chin. "-- then you are going to look at whatever I want you to look at, Brendon. If you don't want to safeword, you're going to do what I tell you do to. You're going to sit at my feet and eat from my hands and you're going to keep your eyes open the whole time." Spencer's trying to keep his voice soothing, but he knows it's shaking, because, oh, god, that is suddenly all he fucking wants -- for Brendon to follow him around and do what he's told and eat bits of chicken from Spencer's plate and lie on the floor with his head on Spencer's feet, and maybe suck chocolate pudding from Spencer's fingers.

Just until Sarah calls. Just until Brendon ends this for good and they go back to being bandmates and best friends.

And that's Spencer being _nice_ \-- because he's not going to push Brendon into what he really wants. He's not going to make Brendon suck his cock, or bend Brendon over the padded stool and finger him until he cries. He's not going to jerk Brendon off until he comes -- and then keep going. He'd love to. He'd love to just hold Brendon down on the dark purple carpet and watch Brendon writhe from the overstimulation, choke on Spencer's dick. Spencer wants to use the cane on Brendon and then come on the red stripes. Spencer wants to put nipple clamps on Brendon and lead him around by them.

Spencer wants -- he wants.

Everything he wants is on his face and he just told Brendon that Brendon had to look.

Fuck.

But Brendon's eyes are closed -- thank god -- while he thinks about using his safeword. And right while Spencer is daydreaming about putting a fucking collar around Brendon's throat, Brendon is shaking his head.

"I didn't hear you," says Spencer shortly.

"I don't want to safeword. I -- I'm sorry." Brendon arches up into Spencer's hold on his throat, helps Spencer to choke him, and rasps the words out. "I'm sorry."

Oh god. Spencer closes his eyes for a moment, and when he opens them, Brendon is staring at him. Spencer leans down and rubs his beard against Brendon's face the way he knows Brendon loves.

"You are such a good boy," he murmurs. "You're so well-behaved most of the time. I'm even going to let you pick your punishment. Do you want ten with the crop or do you want five with the belt?"

Brendon's never had the belt on his bare ass before. Spencer's tried it on himself -- well, on his thighs. He'd never try anything on Brendon that he hadn't used on himself first. The belt fucking hurts, and that's on Spencer's thigh; on Brendon's ass, especially since Spencer's already beat him, it's going to be incredibly painful. Spencer really wants Brendon to pick the belt.

"The belt," gasps Brendon, and Spencer lets go of his neck.

"Sit up." Spencer brings over a bottle of water, and holds it so Brendon can sip it -- just little sips, because too much would probably make Brendon throw up at this point. Spencer's not into puppy play at all -- he's had too many actual dogs to really be interested -- but he might put a dish of water down on the floor for Brendon later, just to see. Just to see if Brendon would drink it. Just to see if Brendon would stay hard while drinking it.

Spencer turns Brendon over on the bed. "Hands and knees," he says, while he pulls Brendon's hips back. Brendon is stretched out, prostrate or something, his head down, arms forward, ass in the air. His ass is pushed so far out that the cheeks are separating and Spencer can see the short curly hair there; his legs are separated to accommodate his erection. It's flushed and curves a little and Spencer's mouth waters.

Now he makes Brendon wait. Wait and listen as Spencer unbuckles his belt, the swishing noise it makes as it threads through the belt loops.

The first slap with the belt, folded double, the buckle carefully tucked away, is harder than Spencer means, and Brendon rocks forward and cries out.

"Count," demands Spencer.

"One, oh my god," says Brendon.

Spencer hits him again, just above the first stripe. "Two." Then again, below the first stripe. "Three, fuck, shit, Spence --"

Brendon's balls are shaved; that is gonna itch like a bitch growing back. Brendon's probably used to it, though. Who fucking knows? Spencer's never gotten such an up close and personal look at them before. He lashes out with the belt and it slaps across Brendon's thighs, definitely catching the back of his balls.

"Fuck, aw!" howls Brendon. "Four!"

"One more," says Spencer. He feels smug, and he's not sure why. He wants to somehow fit the belt in the crack of Brendon's ass and use it to slap Brendon's hole -- but he's not good enough with it, or it's not thin enough, or maybe that would be Brendon's stopping point, not just for a safeword but stopping forever. So Spencer aims for the same area where he slapped it the first time, and Brendon's legs tremble and he screams something wordless, but he takes it, takes a breath, says "Five," and stays where he is while Spencer rolls up his belt and drops it into the toy bag.

He pulls out the small bottle of aloe vera; Brendon's skin isn't broken, but is inflamed, and better to be safe than sorry. He rubs it in gently, resists the urge to rub it on Brendon's balls, and grips Brendon's hip when he's done. He tightens his grip, then lets go -- just another way of telling Brendon he's a good boy, he's behaved himself, he's earned a reward for taking his punishment so well.

"Are you ready for some food?" asks Spencer, and when Brendon says yes, Spencer guides him off the bed, and, even though he's not wearing the blindfold any longer, Spencer holds his wrists as they walk through the house to the dining room.

When Spencer got home yesterday, he collapsed for a few hours, took a really long shower, dumped his tour clothes into the washing machine, and wore an outfit of completely clean clothes for the first time since about a week into the tour. It was fucking amazing to not smell like cheap beer and pot smoke and sweat. Then he went to the grocery store.

He and Brendon are both suckers for the roast chicken that comes whole from the deli counter, so he pulls that out of the fridge. He got a shitload of Brendon's favorite foods, figuring Brendon would either need to wallow in Sarah breaking up with him, or celebrate Sarah not thinking he's some kind of deviant whose parents don't love him enough.

In Spencer's opinion, his parents _don't_ actually love him enough, but that cannot possibly be why Brendon likes to get hit, since Spencer's parents love him enough for six and Spencer still likes to be the one doing the hitting.

So there's roast chicken, and a small tub of shrimp, and a steak that's marinating for later, in case Spencer feels like cooking out, plus shit from the antipasto bar that Spencer can feed Brendon without worrying about a fork, like tiny balls of fresh mozzarella, and pitted olives and marinated artichoke hearts. Spencer even shelled out for some thin slices of capicola, because there's nothing like expensive Italian ham to say either "I'm sorry your girlfriend broke up with you because you have a kinky relationship with me" or "I'm sorry we have to quit having kinky not-sex because you love your girlfriend so much."

He hadn't planned for it to be a "You're a good boy for getting off on me getting off on beating the shit out of you" meal, but he figures it'll work anyway.

He leaves Brendon at the table, staring at the floor, and goes into the living room for a long thin pillow, puts it on the floor. "Kneel there," he tells Brendon, and Brendon immediately goes down onto his knees and holds his heels.

It's not until Spencer's turning away from the fridge, his arms full of stupid fucking shit, Brendon's favorite fucking foods, that he realizes this is going to be a problem. Brendon arching backward gives Spencer the best fucking view of Brendon's skinny chest and wide open eyes, but it also gives Spencer an up close and personal look at his hard cock, swollen and dark against his belly, curving a little to the right, and shining with precome. Brendon's face isn't just flushed, Brendon is fucking embarrassed as hell.

No wonder he would rather wear the blindfold than look Spencer in the eye.

But he's holding. He's got his hands on his heels and his back is arched and he's staring right at Spencer, even though he's so flushed he looks like he has a fever -- even his neck and chest are bright. Spencer would bet he's hot to the touch.

Spencer puts the food on the table, and walks around to where Brendon is. He runs his hand through Brendon's hair, and lets Brendon turn his face into Spencer's stomach. Brendon's arms come around Spencer's waist, and his fingers twist into Spencer's belt loops. Brendon didn't ask permission, but Spencer's not going to punish him for that right now. Not yet.

"I'm going to ask you questions now, and you have to tell the truth." Spencer takes a deep breath. "Can you tell me the truth?"

Brendon nods against Spencer's stomach. "Yes," he mumbles.

"Can you look at me?"

Brendon shakes his head, pressing harder into Spencer. Spencer wishes he was wearing at least a T-shirt now; he can feel Brendon's breath hot and damp against the skin of his stomach. It's got to be clear to Brendon that Spencer's dick is hard too.

All the time Spencer spends thinking about what Brendon is thinking and he still doesn't know the important shit. Like, is this going to make Brendon run? Is it going to freak him out? Spencer's not worried about the fucking band -- at best they'll act like they always act, like they don't spend as many days as they can in their own little world. At worst... Brendon would make a decent solo artist and people always need good drummers. Spencer could get by.

He doesn't _want_ to get by, though.

His fucking stomach hurts, is cramping, and he's going to fucking _die_.

He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, then puts one hand on the side of Brendon's face, letting a finger slip between Brendon's lips. His other hand comes to the top of Brendon's head, twists into his hair, and pulls with steady pressure.

"Are you okay?" he asks, staring over to the blinds covering the window behind the kitchen sink. They don't have curtains or anything, but they have blinds.

"Yes." Brendon's lips close tightly around Spencer's finger and then loosen.

Spencer ignores it and keeps going. Brendon is going to follow his lead, so he has to stay in control. "Do you want to put clothing on?"

Brendon doesn't answer, just pushes his face harder into Spencer. Spencer really doesn't want to have to step back but if Brendon isn't going to talk...

"Do you want to put clothing on?" he repeats, and he feels Brendon's mouth open.

"No," whispers Brendon.

"Louder."

Brendon clears his throat. "No."

"Do you --" Spencer falters here, then pushes forward. Because this could go so many ways, and maybe, for Brendon, being embarrassed about being turned on is just a new facet of the pain. "Do you want to renegotiate?"

Brendon doesn't answer immediately. Spencer couldn't forget their first negotiation if he tried -- neither of them knew what the fuck they were doing. All they knew was Spencer's hand wrapped around Brendon's wrist made Brendon feel better. They were sitting on the couch in the bus lounge, and Spencer had said, "This okay?" and Brendon said yes, and then slid to sit at Spencer's feet, both arms pulled over his head, both wrists held tight in Spencer's hands, Brendon's back pressed against Spencer's legs, Brendon for once not jiggling his legs or tapping his feet or chasing Ryan around trying to get him to eat tuna-and-Cool Whip salad or nagging Brent into playing Halo or Guitar Hero. Just sitting, watching -- watching whatever was on the TV. Spencer doesn't remember, because he spent the whole time staring at Brendon's hands, at his own hands wrapped around Brendon's wrists, at Brendon's short fingernails and chewed cuticles.

Spencer remembers his fingers had been pretty loose around Brendon's wrists, until Brendon tilted his head back and said, "I like when it hurts," and Spencer had _squeezed_. He wishes he had paid closer attention; he wishes he could remember if Brendon had been matter-of-fact about it, or tentative. Spencer's played it out in his head a bunch of ways, but it always comes down to the elasticity of Brendon's skin and the beat of his pulse and the way his fingers curled and relaxed as Spencer squeezed and let go.

"I don't --" Brendon's voice cracks and Spencer's heart is going to break. He really doesn't want to hear Brendon say that Brendon doesn't want to have sex with Spencer. Brendon's not fucking straight, but he's not interested in Spencer. Spencer knows Brendon's type: thin and gangly and dark haired and delicate featured. Boys and girls. Spencer isn't Ryan fucking Ross, so why would Brendon be interested?

Spencer takes his hands away from Brendon and uses them to detangle Brendon's fingers from his belt loops. He steps back, walks away from the circle of Brendon's arms. "It's okay," he tells Brendon, and he knows he sounds the opposite of reassuring. "Don't worry about it. We can stop. Sin --"

"I don't want you to do anything you don't want to do," says Brendon in a rush, before Spencer can end the scene. He reaches out for Spencer, but when he realizes Spencer isn't going to walk forward to him, he drops his arms and leans back and grabs his heels -- and starts stuttering like earlier, like when he was talking about his relationship with Sarah. "But I -- if you wanted -- I never thought, because you never said, and at the beginning -- but if we could -- if you were. I know I'm not --" Brendon breaks off.

Spencer's hands are shaking. His whole body is shaking. He feels like he just snorted three lines of coke, took a tab of ecstasy, and drank two cans of Red Bull.

"You _are_ , though," says Spencer. He has no idea how Brendon was going to end that sentence, but it doesn't matter. Whatever Brendon thinks he isn't, he is. For a long time, he has been.

"I'm not," insists Brendon. "But I -- I do want you." Brendon jerks like he's forgotten his hands are on his heels and he wants to move them, run them through his hair, hide his face. He looks up, into Spencer's eyes, just like he's supposed to do when he's telling Spencer what he wants. "I want you."

Spencer sits down abruptly, right on the floor.

"If you don't want me," Brendon continues with painful dignity, "that's okay. We can _renegotiate_."

When Spencer finds his voice, it's much colder than what he was expecting. "This isn't a game, Brendon. You can't just -- I'm not just some -- one night stand, or a groupie, or. If we -- I --" He stops and pinches his own thigh. Get it together, Smith. Complete a sentence. "If we did this, I couldn't just turn it on and off. You'd have to always be mine."

"I can fuck other people while you're hitting me, but not while I'm sucking your cock?" Brendon's tone is snide, and if Spencer could stand, he'd definitely slap Brendon for speaking to him like that without tapping out of the scene first.

Except Spencer doesn't have to stand. He stretches his legs out in front of himself and pushes until he's leaning against the cabinets, then gestures to Brendon with two fingers. "Come here."

Brendon chews his lip and shakes his head.

"Come. Here. Don't make me repeat myself again." When Brendon starts to stand, Spencer shakes his head. "Crawl." And Brendon _does it_ ; the true glee Spencer feels when Brendon does what he's told has never left, and Spencer hopes it never does. If this ever gets boring, Spencer hopes death is close behind.

He waits until Brendon has crawled, head hanging, off the pillow, across the hard kitchen floor, to perch between Spencer's legs. Brendon lifts his head up to look at Spencer and wait for another order. Spencer holds Brendon's chin with one hand. He loves Brendon's eyes. Brendon's eyelashes. The way Brendon's hair falls across his forehead. The dull flush that tells him Brendon is feeling embarrassed and humiliated and maybe even a little angry.

"You don't speak to me that way," Spencer tells him and, keeping a tight grip on his chin, slaps Brendon as hard as he can. Brendon's head only moves a little; he absorbs the shock of the blow, hissing air in through his teeth.

"I don't speak to you that way," Brendon parrots, smirking a little.

Spencer shakes his head. Of course Brendon can meet his eyes when he's being disobedient, defiant. He switches hands, and slaps Brendon across the face again. This time his hand catches Brendon's mouth, but doesn't split his lip. Spencer would love to hit Brendon hard enough to split his lip, get blood everywhere. He's not going to do that -- that would be idiotic at this point. But maybe. If Brendon is seriously going to do this, if he really wants Spencer...

Brendon is still smirking, so Spencer rethinks his approach, and grabs Brendon by the throat. Brendon's throat is symbolically important; it's what he uses to make his living. Spencer isn't Ryan or some English major, but Spencer knows his symbolism. Spencer knows how to make a point. He grips tightly, hard enough that he's going to leave fingerprints.

"You don't speak to me that way," he says calmly, and slaps Brendon again. Brendon's starting to look dazed, and his legs are going from being splayed to his knees together, body straightening out. He hisses when his ass hits his calves, but he settles. Once his hands are on his heels, Spencer lets go of his throat.

There is so much to fucking think about now -- because they're in the perfect position for Brendon to put his head on Spencer's stomach instead of the floor, for Brendon to suck Spencer's cock. But does Spencer want to suck Brendon's cock first? Would that be giving up too much of the dominance of the scene? Does he want to use sex to punish -- make Brendon suck his cock until he behaves -- or as a reward?

Brendon's head is bowed.

"Look at me," says Spencer, and Brendon lifts his head up. Spencer bites back, "God, I love your face," but just barely. "I'm going to stop the scene. We're going to eat, sit at the table, talk about what we want to do. New parameters. The... the future."

"A new perspective?" Spencer is going to smack that smirk right off Brendon's face again, but it transforms into a real smile. "I want to sit at your feet. Can I do that? Will you feed me? I was good before. Can't this wait -- wait until later?"

Later? Later when Sarah calls? Later when Spencer's cut out of the discussion because it's Brendon's fucking relationship? Spencer scratches his fingernails down Brendon's dick, and Brendon lets out a holler, arches backwards like a bow. Instead of slapping Brendon's face, he slaps Brendon's dick, twice, three times, watching Brendon's body jerk involuntarily.

Brendon's precome is on Spencer's fingers, and Spencer wants to lick it off, but doesn't. He wipes it on one of Brendon's pink pink pink thighs, pinches, twists the skin. Brendon moans, long and low. His eyes are shut.

"Okay," Spencer says finally. He has no fucking idea what to do in a situation like this, but that's nothing new, not anymore. Everything else in his life has been turned upside-down in the last few months, why not this too?

Brendon opens his eyes. "Okay?" he repeats hopefully.

"We'll keep going tonight, like always. No sex." Spencer pauses. Fucking hell. He's been an adult for a really long time, and sometimes he resents it more than others. "Then... I guess you'll talk to Sarah, and after that we can -- you know. Then we renegotiate, and if you still want. If you." He swallows hard. "If you still want me, we can renegotiate for that."

"Are you fucking shitting me?" Brendon lets go of his heels, and sits down hard on his ass. "Ow, fuck."

"Jesus, Brendon." Spencer rubs his eyes for a moment. "Sinatra."

"No -- wait --"

" _Sinatra_." Spencer pulls his legs to his chest and crosses them, his knees pressed against Brendon's knees. "We can't have this conversation if you're not _here_ , Brendon."

"I am fucking here," Brendon practically snarls. "I'd've --"

"Dude, you have to consent --"

"If I wasn't consenting, _I'd_ have used the safeword --"

"Maybe I don't feel safe!" yells Spencer. He leans forward into Brendon's space. "Did you ever think of that?"

Brendon is silent. His hair lies damply against his forehead; it's a stupid thing to notice.

Spencer takes a couple of deep breaths.

"You're an idiot," Brendon says. He sounds pretty fond, though, like maybe he doesn't mind. "I'm not going to give up everything for you or anything, but, god, Spencer, did you ever think for one second that I wouldn't, like, be yours, or whatever? All the time?"

Spencer slumps back against the wall. "No. Never. Because --"

"I just always thought you didn't really want me, not like that. I, uh." Brendon grins at him. "Thought this was just for practice, you know?"

Spencer tries to grin back, but isn't sure he's successful. "Right. You're a fucking moron."

Brendon puts his hands on Spencer's knees, and slides them up his jeans to tops of his thighs. "We're both totally morons," he agrees.

Of totally their own volition, Spencer's hands go to Brendon's head and start to run through his sweaty hair. "You have to talk to Sarah. I don't. You know."

Brendon is shaking his head, so Spencer uses his hands to hold Brendon's head still, make Brendon look at him again. Brendon says, "I don't know. What the fuck?"

Spencer takes a deep breath and lets go of Brendon's head. "I just -- I can't do an open relationship or whatever right now. I don't. You shouldn't have to choose, but --"

Brendon is shaking his head. "I don't know, but I. I don't know. I like her so much, but..."

"I need to know," says Spencer softly.

Brendon lifts his head and, like he's supposed to do when he tells Spencer what he wants, he looks Spencer in the eye. "I mean. I stayed with you. I like you a lot more."

Spencer shuts his eyes and whispers, "Me too." Then he looks at Brendon again, because it's only fair.

"I'll talk to Sarah." Brendon takes a deep breath and it sounds wobbly. Spencer frowns a little. "I'll talk to her now. Before we eat. And then -- I do want you to feed me. I want to go back into the scene. I want --" He takes another deep breath; his cheeks are flushed but his eyes are pretty steady, meeting Spencer's. "I want to suck your cock, and I want you to fuck me, and I want --"

"Yes," Spencer interrupts. He leans forward and presses his forehead to Brendon's. "I want all that too."

#

  



End file.
